


tell me what you saw in me

by therestisdetail



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 16:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7581139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therestisdetail/pseuds/therestisdetail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I won’t be no bother,” Charlie says idly, stubbing out the cigarette. In the moment, as he says it, he means nothing by it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell me what you saw in me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wellthatsood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellthatsood/gifts).



 

It’s a barely-there sound, the scratch of graphite against paper. Charlie’s breathing is louder, when he inhales around the cigarette, whiskey half-finished and lounging back in the chair. It’s at a haphazard angle and he’s got his legs stretched out, half tilted away from the table and the ledgers laid out on over the other. Papers spilling over and none of them are his. It’s barely-there, the sound of Meyer taking an empire apart one thread at a time, or maybe putting one together, and maybe there ain’t much difference. It makes a difference that Charlie is here for it, though. Makes a difference that he can be here now and commit the sound of it to memory. 

Doesn’t mean he always likes it. One or two or three too many drinks out, because an old man said _siciliano_ too slow and too close against Charlie’s ear, a little too long since he could stretch out the ache of a bruise earned honestly and knowing Meyer split his knuckles across the guy that put it there. He’ll be restless, those days. Pace around and run his mouth until he gets what he wants; a glare, a sharp word. Something tangible. 

Those days aren’t often. Usually it is like this, easy to lean back with alcohol on his tongue and his ankle resting against Meyer’s under the table. Easy in more ways than that. 

“Be a while,” Meyer warns at some point, attention almost entirely elsewhere. 

“I won’t be no bother,” Charlie says idly, stubbing out the cigarette. In the moment, as he says it, he means nothing by it. 

Meyer doesn’t look up from the ledger. 

He doesn’t look up from the ledger, and if he blinks it’s nothing to notice, if not for the fact of the momentary stillness of the pencil mid-stroke. How he redraws over the mark. 

In the moment, as Charlie says it, he means nothing by it. The fact that Meyer thinks he might - that changes the rules. 

He takes his time, if only to prove Meyer isn’t the only one who can. Finishes his drink first and doesn’t say word. Slides to his knees. 

It’s not particularly graceful, with the table at an awkward height, tiles hard under his knees. Not comfortable. Doesn’t matter, with Meyer’s legs bracketing him, blinkering out everything that doesn’t matter. He tilts his head, cheek pressed to fabric, leaning against Meyer’s thigh long enough to be told to stop. 

Meyer is still, the barely-there sound uninterrupted. There is a seam in the cloth of his pant leg, rough at the corner of Charlie’s mouth, so he presses his lips against it. Once, twice. Moves forward.

He is careful and gentle because Meyer is half-hard in his mouth at first. It’s strange but it is good, in a way he can’t put words to, and he tries to stay still. Shifts just a little as Meyer’s cock hardens to press it against the back of his throat, mouth wet, swallows only when he has to. He can feel the twitch against his throat at that, the tension just a little against Meyer’s thigh, but nothing else. He doesn’t know how long. 

He doesn’t know how long, but Meyer is busy, and Charlie can wait. Pages turn.

Pages turn and it hits like flash fire low in his chest; Meyer knows he’s there. Meyer knows he’ll wait. Meyer knows he belo-

The ache in his knees matches the ache in his jaw and both of them dance on the edge of not-real, blurred away a white glare behind his eyes and a buzzing heat in his veins, because it does, and because Meyer’s other hand is in his hair now. Grips tight. 

Two can play but Charlie is done with games. Wants to move his tongue, like _this_ , wants weight on it when he pushes forward enough to choke and further. Wants Meyer’s eyes on him, greedier than that, wants his focus. Draws his mouth tight, long and low and sets the pace until Meyer’s hips buck forward, until he tilts his throat to offer what use he can, pulse racing to match. 

Meyer pulls away too close and Charlie gasps at the loss; scrabbles for reason or apology as he’s pulled to his feet.

Meyer’s kiss at the corner of his mouth is gentle and nothing else is. Charlie is too busy trying to get rid of his trousers to notice that the table he’s slammed down against isn’t cleared, at least not at first, and when he does he thinks of the map of black and blue down his back and leather-bound notebooks with a broken spine, thinks about telling Meyer it’s his own damn fault with a smirk and Meyer biting at his lip to shut him up, and it’s good, it’s perfect. Meyer’s shoulders move against his thighs, hitched high, and Charlie arches. Promises that he doesn’t need this patience, he can take it, he has before.

“You’re good,” Meyer says, relentlessly slow, hand on the back of Charlie’s neck. “You’re good, you’re good.” It’s a promise almost as much as it is a question.

“ _Pi fauri_ ,” Charlie says, because he doesn’t have any other words.

Meyer’s hands on his hips are inexorable and his mouth is forgiving, affirms with a bite, kisses soft against the marks he leaves.

(“ _Pi fauri_ ,” Charlie says, because he means it.)

 

 


End file.
